


Syncopation

by Vatteville



Series: Estate [2]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 05:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vatteville/pseuds/Vatteville
Summary: 'Suddenly, it made sense. The awkward avoidance; the careful stares; the sourceless expectations. He was a replacement.'Quick piece to fluff out the 'verse a bit between longer stuff. Should function standalone, too. I think.





	Syncopation

What had they been expecting?

No, seriously; whose reputation couldn’t he match? He wasn’t unfriendly, nor yet cloying, and even if he did drift into his own thoughts he considered himself to be  _ polite _ , at  _ least _ , if not perfectly sociable. Certainly, his swings weren’t the steadiest, but that was only to be expected-- Lightsakes, he was far from  _ detrimental  _ in the field, but none of them ever so much as looked his way!

He supposed he wasn’t the handsomest fellow... but he couldn’t imagine the other Hamlet mercenaries to be so shallow. ‘Sides, they didn’t mind looking at the monsters they slayed, and he was ugly, not  _ grotesque _ . If he lived long enough to rival the Fungi in looks, Ditton reckoned that was the Light telling him to up and call it quits.

So  _ why _ were they all so averse?

Take this, for example - a Weald camp, the dying light through the trees barely enough to see by. No fire; they’d let it burn as long as it was able but at length the log couldn’t sustain a blaze. Well enough; it was temperate here, and just the smell of the embers was plenty to deter the night-beasts. That, and Dufay, the houndmaster, had taken to prowling the perimeter at his earliest convenience, neglecting to spare a word to even his more familiar fellows. The jester had gone so far as to climb a tree to distance herself from the leper below.

It couldn’t be because of his disease, Ditton thought, surprised he hadn’t considered it sooner.  _ Surely _ not. Or…?

Because the only one still sitting by the pile of dull ash was the doctor, and they would of course know that there was little risk of contagion - especially with the four feet of distance they allowed.

They were fumbling with their left boot, trying to get to where one of the twice-armed brigands had sliced open their calf. The skin around the laceration had swollen, not enough to constrict, but enough to turn something as simple as shoe removal into an ordeal. Ditton wondered how set they were on keeping the boot; if it were he in their position, he would have likely resigned to cutting the thing up already.

“Might be easier if you took your mask off,” he suggested evenly.

They turned suddenly to look at him, as if they’d forgotten he was there. Ditton tried to angle his head to get at least a glimpse of their eyes past the white leather, but it was impossible in this darkness and with his fading vision. Why hadn’t they taken care of the wound earlier, he wondered, when the fire was still lit?

“You first,” they said, slightly muffled. Ditton was caught by surprise, and the doctor - Vatteville, he remembered - shook their head a little. “I’m joking.” They pushed up their mask with one hand, then tugged off their gloves as an afterthought before returning their attention to that troublesome boot of theirs.

Ditton let the silence settle further before he tried again. They weren’t hostile, at least, though there did lurk a hesitation, somewhere. A meek avoidance. He found their focus on their wound to be contrived, as if they were using it more as a distraction from him than anything. “Do you need any help?”

This time it was Vatteville who looked surprised. “...Sure,” they relented, shuffling closer awkwardly along the ground. Ditton took a better look at the torn leather. Already the existing tear was only centimeters from the cuff; if continued, it would allow them to slide the thing off without causing irreparable damage. He mentioned same, and Vatteville huffed as they drew their knife: an odd, irregular blade, better suited to battle than utility. Nevertheless, it was enough to free their leg, and Vatteville shoved the boot-remains to one side as they traded their knife for a needle. 

They sat a moment, fingers lightly appraising the torn skin. In the open, Ditton could see that the wound was deeper than he’d first guessed, and - going by the expression on Vatteville’s face - it was as painful as it looked. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the cut had gone to bone; those brigands had a tendency to throw themselves into their every move.

“Here,” they said, pausing to look up at him, “do take your mask off, if you’d like.”

“Sure?” They nodded, and Ditton obliged, shaking his head a little as he pushed back his cowl, too - best take full advantage of being able to feel the air, for once. He was in surprisingly good shape - or, perhaps, any injuries lined up with whatever he wasn’t feeling at the moment.

“Oh, look at you,” Vatteville chuckled faintly, “still with a full head of hair. Gaveston would have been jealous.”

“Who?”

They raised their eyebrows and shot a dry, almost  _ disappointed _ look in the general direction of Dufay and Guinand. “No one’s told you.”

“Told me...?”

“I can’t believe they wouldn’t--” Vatteville huffed and shook their head; “Gaveston was the dead leper you were called in to replace.”

Suddenly, it made sense. The awkward avoidance; the careful stares; the sourceless expectations. He was a replacement.

Oddly enough, Ditton felt relieved. At least he knew what all of the strangeness had been about. “Small wonder I’ve not been able to strike up a conversation. If the wound is still fresh...”

Vatteville shrugged. “It’s less that we miss Gaveston, and more, I think, that we miss the false sense of security. Few had experienced a death in the ranks, before. Three others left after he died, for… varied reasons.”

Ditton had the sense not to pry. “I see.” The association, then, was not with one loss, but with four. He could hardly blame the mercenaries for their coldness. “What advice, then, might you spare a newcomer?”

“You’re really nothing like Gaveston, are you?” Vatteville murmured, and Ditton didn’t miss the gentle implication that they had been comparing the two since he’d arrived. “...My first mistake was thinking too far ahead,” they said, more darkly. “If you keep your mind on what’s directly before you, you’ll manage.”

“I can’t even  _ see _ what’s directly before me,” Ditton joked. He tried to gesture for emphasis, but found his shoulders regrettably impaired. Such is life.

Vatteville huffed a laugh as they regarded him with a faint but growing trust. “I can look you over once I finish with this,” they said, angling their head to their leg wound. “Surely you’ve not lasted this long completely unscathed.”

“If not,” Ditton said, wincing at his shoulders’ new pain, “I haven’t noticed.”

Their expression softened. “I’ll look, then,” they said, steadying themself for the needlework. Ditton leaned closer and put a hand on their shoulder; they paused but did not move away; indeed, they braced themself against him as they stitched. By the time they had finished, their breaths had quickened, and their hands had only just begun to shake. Before they could draw near, Ditton waved them away.

“I think I’ll manage,” he said. “I’ve come this far.”

“ _ That _ sounds more like something Gaveston would say,” Vatteville panted, now sewing up their boot. Not exactly craftsman-standard, but it would hold until the party’s return. By their muted compliance with his request to be let alone, Ditton assumed they were exhausted; indeed, it did seem to be getting quite late.

He’d one more concern, though, before retiring: “How do you suggest I approach the others?”

Vatteville pondered this for so long Ditton began to wonder if they’d even heard him. “...One at a time,” they suggested finally. “When we return, try the Abbey. I think Reynauld should be very easy to talk to, and you can handle yourself from there.”

The Crusader, yes; it shouldn’t be hard to engage in theological discussion. He nodded, then hissed as he reclined onto sore shoulders. The pain had spread over his back irregularly; he shifted his weight trying to find a less bothersome position.

“Alright?”

“Not wounded,” he grunted.

“Ah.”

There was a long silence.

“Come see me at my station sometime after our return,” Vatteville said quietly. “I might see if I have anything to help.”

“Not leeches, I beg,” he half-joked. He hated just the look of those things. Vatteville’s pause answered well enough; Ditton groaned. “I’d like to keep my blood  _ inside _ .”

“They’re brackish-continental,” Vatteville said. “I didn’t give it much thought before, but now I wonder if perhaps the wildlife there wasn’t affected by…”

They didn’t have to say it; the Events, three in a rough circle around those islands. Ditton wondered how it would have been to grow up in such a region, how the closeness of the Void might alter a place’s very soil. “Are you from there?”

“I am,” they said, and they didn’t say anything else. Ditton turned onto his side to regard them. “Hm?”

“Well, what’s it like?” He’d never even been out of the country, let alone to another continent.

Vatteville sighed. “Brackish.”

“Come on.” At his prompting, they shook their head and Ditton could finally see how strained their expression was. He raised a hand to cut them off before they could respond; “I’m sorry; you don’t have to divulge your history. If it’s uncomfortable...”

“It’s nothing,” the doctor said, voice lower than before. “My hometown was a ways inland; we never had to face the farther seas. The fishing villages, they suffered intermittently by the year, but nothing ever seemed to destroy the rice or the palms. Nothing ever tainted the skies as in the west - or, the  _ south _ , here - though we did see the ground torn up as also occurred to the west and the east. Nothing spoke to us on land, but you’d hear the odd story from some of the more unhinged fishers.

“And of course, there were a great number of scholars - which wasn’t in itself an issue, but… well. We had our  _ own  _ scholars and occultists. And suddenly they were crowded in and overshadowed by all the rest - and that did do damage, if not to our education, then at least to its reputation.”

Ditton had heard of this. Well - he’d heard that, for whatever-odd reason, the brackish continent had taken a while to catch up to the rest of the world in terms of occult-schooling. Apparently said reason was simply that they’d been overrun.

“All of these new names and faces coming in; none of our faces going out,” Vatteville confirmed with a shrug. “It never bothered me, personally - I’m not one for restricting the acquisition of knowledge - but you’d sometimes read of those who’d been stepped on, you know; some upstart from the hooded or weathered continents crossing an ocean to snatch up one of ours’ research to add as a footnote in their own opus.”

“I see,” Ditton said. “That’s a shame.”

“It is, but I’ll also admit it’s improved a fair amount recently. Lurçer was denounced, what, twenty years ago now? Besides - the chaos has, I believe, died down.”

“‘Tis true.”

“Mm.”

Ditton considered their expression and thought them to have relaxed considerably in his presence, to his satisfaction. “I’ve lived here all my life - well, a fair ways west of here,” he admitted. “Never even gone south to  _ our  _ Event. I only ever read those - those little, the simplified - the…” pinching his fingers to indicate a very thin volume, “these leaflets they gave out. Didn’t tell us much.”

Vatteville shrugged. “I’ve not seen ours, either, though it was considered polite to view at least one of them.”

“‘Polite?’”

A hum. “Well. You know, sort of… respectful. Sort of part of living there. It’s expected that we have some familiarity with the continent, including its Events.”

“Ah.”

Vatteville sat a while in a silence Ditton was hesitant to break. They didn’t seem  _ homesick _ , but he got the feeling that they’d not taken anything of their home here with them. A sort of forced separation had occurred, he thought, and the notion made him frown. “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s not too late.”

Their head sagged. “No,” they agreed. “But it is too risky.”

He didn’t want to ask anything further, as he’d clearly upset them, but he was still yearning to continue the conversation - the first one he’d yet had with a coworker. He stalled in his mind, wondering if it would be rude to suddenly change the subject or if it would be a welcome diversion. Was there a tasteful way to acknowledge Vatteville’s discomfort without further intrusion?

“The quakes had always happened, though,” they said quietly. “There’s a notion that it was caused by the Events, but quakes and volcanoes were always a part of the island. The  _ islands _ . And the quakes in the east, as well, though I believe in their case the Event did worsen conditions…”

Ditton got the idea that they weren’t talking to him, and he let them continue the one-sided discussion a while. They were sort of arguing - would’ve been, save that it was only the one speaker - and it was entertaining, if a bit over his head.

“And - even in the west there were volcanoes - only rarer, so naturally any activity post-Event would’ve been falsely correlated…”

He lay back down, but the motion drew their attention.

“...Sorry, I was - you wouldn’t know - one of the people who left, he was an occultist from the hooded continent, you see.”

Indeed. “One of those ‘upstarts’ you mentioned?”

“No— well. Perhaps— but, young; he hadn’t yet gone to the brackish continent.” They looked as if they would say more, but stopped, gaze drifting into the middle distance. Ditton sensed the dull finality in their voice and understood; what had gone unspoken was the notion that perhaps this young scholar would never get the chance to travel. And here  _ he _ was, the sick reminder.

He wanted to apologize, but he knew that the moment stretched beyond simple sorrys. Instead he hummed in sympathy and spoke; “I knew an occultist once. He really  _ was  _ abrasive.”

“...Yeah?” It had taken everything in them to take the bait, Ditton could tell.

“I forget his name. Light, but he was too smart to live. He’s likely out mindwrestling Void-things as we speak. A damnable showoff, he was.”

Vatteville managed a chuckle. “Sigman liked to show his knowledge,” they said. “Never shut up about it.”

“Then we share the same experience. I never wanted to slap a man more.”

“Oh,” they said kindly, “Sigman wasn’t so bad. Well-intentioned.”

“Aren’t they all,” Ditton snarked, but Vatteville’s response was serious:

“He was.”

Oh, no. “...I didn’t mean to insult him.” Ditton would’ve drawn one hand across his face, were it not for his shoulders stinging. “I’m sure he wasn’t anything like this other fellow.”

Vatteville didn’t answer for a long time, and Ditton began to fear he’d driven away the only person who’d yet spoken to him. Then he heard them sigh weakly and their breath hitch just a little, and he managed to feel even worse. “Light, Vatteville, I—”

“He  _ was  _ annoying,” they said, and he looked up in bewilderment to see them smiling -  _ laughing _ . “And bless him; he never did understand the notion of hubris.”

“None of them do,” Ditton weakly quipped. Vatteville giggled, voice suddenly sounding sleepy.

“Think I prefer you over Gaveston,” they mumbled. “We will see how the rest treat you.”

“ _ You’ll _ see,” Ditton said, regaining his confidence. “I can’t see hardly anything, remember.”

Vatteville snorted. “You swapped your sense of sight for humor, I take it.”

“No, ‘twas  _ feeling _ for humor. I traded my vision for improved smell.” Beat. “I  _ should _ see the mistake in hindsight, but that was included in the trade.” He smiled as he heard Vatteville muffle their laughs with some part of their cloak.

“Good night, Ditton,” they said, after a comfortable silence.

“Good night,” he replied, trying to shift into a better position for his shoulders. Fruitless, he found, but he settled in on an aching back anyway, pleased with the events of the evening. Feeling for humor, indeed, he thought, but at least he had broken the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> [Check out the cool drawing I did to accompany this work!](https://vatteville.tumblr.com/post/176722342803) Warning for some blood.
> 
> Working on adding a 2nd POV to the next series installment! Really been busy with back to school... but I'll get there!


End file.
